


dear, Idaho

by Leftleg



Category: My Own Private Idaho (1991), SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Bad Writing, Dorks in Love, Drabbles, F/M, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, M/M, Molestation, No set time period :/, Recreational Drug Use, Scott's dad is meh in this just hear me out, Teen Angst, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, at some point itll connect don't worry, love triangle? did you mean love square, oof, scott and mike are 19, shakespeare gays, slight diverge from mopi, the chapters don't really link up but i needed somewhere to put my shit, was supposed to be a fix it for mopi but I think i broke it more, written like a memory, written like a stereotypical YA novel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-05-01 04:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14512464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leftleg/pseuds/Leftleg
Summary: “{...} I can’t even keep myself close. ‘Course I’m losing you. I’ll lose you.”Scott shook his head, kissed the blonde’s cheek and whispered in his ear.“Mikey, something’s telling me that I’m the one who’s gonna lose you.”Mike blinked, slid his hands around his friend’s waist and up his back. He hugged him, and spoke into his neck.“Nonsense. Always speaking nonsense.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this series a series of short stories.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: https://youtu.be/b59KBuS-dX0

“Do you know this song, dear boy? Hm? ” The John paused his words to let the women singing over the speakers belt out soulfully the first lines of some opera, Mike looked around the room awkwardly. He felt out of place in the luxurious hotel room that overlooked the busy uptown outside, as a half-dressed 30 something year old sat across from him, sipping a scotch mix made by the out of place boy, as the woman kept singing. He slid his bare feet on the shag carpet, dug his fingers on the white velvet of the side chair. The John had slicked Mike’s hair back, gave him a pair of round reading glasses and told him to “sit and breathe”. Mike did just that, though the breathing was a sort of last minute thing.

“Ah, yes, Juliet, the poor girl.” He turns to Mike, “Do you know how to dance, Mikey?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I’ll teach you. Come here.”He beckoned him over, and Mike went to him and was pulled into an embrace. The John adjusted him, changing hand placement and making Mike stand up straighter, tighter. He grabbed his hands, and they did a makeshift two-step waltz thing. Mike was flustered with each step, unsure of the actual count and step that was to go with each.

“Come now, Michael, step like this,” He pushed Mike’s foot back, moving his foot forward, “when I step like this. Turn when I turn.”

“O-okay.”

And they danced. That was all. When Mike asked about the music, the opera it was from, if from any, the John’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Ah, dear Mikey, it is from a wonderful production. Romeo et Juliette. A play turned opera, yet losing none of the touches of pain of pure love.” The John sipped his wine as Mike massaged his shoulders. He thought for a moment, the name sounded familiar.

“What’s it about?”

“Oh, star-crossed lovers. Cursed children fated to fall into a love too soon for their time.”

He was paid $240 to dance with a man and rub his shoulders. Mike lamented to a fellow hustler why they all couldn’t be as weird as that guy. The boy shrugged, picking at his nails.

* * *

 

When Scott returned to the shabby apartment hustler hideout, Bob nowhere in sight, he skipped up to the room he shared with Mike, who was wrapped tightly in a blanket, fast asleep. Scott crept over, jumped onto the bed and wrapped himself around Mike’s cocooned body, causing him to startle, wiggle pathetically, and curse and swear. He laughed and pulled the blanket off his buddy's face, unloading the entire ' _Sleeping beauty_  ' package. Mike looked messy, frantic from the struggle and confused by whatever it was that woke him. Scott grinned at him,

“But, soft, what light through yonder blanket breaks? It is the east, and Mikey is the sun!”

“Scott, what the-what the hell are you doin’, man?”

Scott smiled,“He speaks.” he recited to Mike. “Speak again, my slumberous, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night being over my head-”

“Scott, what are you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“A little bird told me you screwed the librarian. He's a Shakespeare nut.” he grinned, Mike shifted, squinting his eyes.

“I didn’t screw ‘im,” he patted Scott to let him go, “we danced and I rubbed his shoulders. Get off me, y’er heavy.”

Scott let up,  laying back onto the mattress with a bounce, Mike unwrapped himself and flung a part of the blanket over the man next to him.

“What was that stuff you were saying? You wrote that?”

“Nah. Shakespeare did. From Romeo and Juliet.”

“Ro-Romeo et Juliette?” Mike asked facing his friend.  Scott grinned wider.

“Yep. You like plays, Mikey?”

“I guess. I was in one.”

“Ever read Romeo and Juliet? It's iconic,  a classic piece of art.”

“No, the guy played a song from it.  Said it was an opera.”

“Well they made one, but you gotta read it,  Mikey. Maybe I can get you a copy. You'll love it.”

“You read it?”

“‘Course. Read them all--Othello, Henry V, Midsummer night's,” with a playful grin, he added, “Hamlet,” and suddenly, with a jolt of passion, he jumped to his feet on the bed,  making it bounce with Mike on it, who sat up to watch him in surprise and interest. Scott looked down at him, dramatically, he recited from memory a slew of lines:

“Ay, truly, for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once,”  he pointed down at Mike, as if waiting for him to give the next line, when he didn't, he continued, “You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it: I loved you not.” he fell to his knees on the bed, crawled up to Mike, came so close that they were less than inches from each other's face. Mike gulped down a wad of spit.

“Get thee to a nunnery,” he kissed his nose, whispered low, in a strikingly serious tone  with a softness in his eyes that went against the hard words, “why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?,” he jumped back from Mike, threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, proudly. Mike was shocked but managed to clap at the theatrics. Scott bowed at the applause.

* * *

The next morning,  Scott wasn't there. He had apparently gone home. Mike didn't go looking for him, knowing he'd come back.

The next day, he saw Scott across the street, getting into a car with an older woman. Scott saw him, waved him down.

They made $210 together that day.  Scott gave him $157.50 because he wanted him to buy some clothes and food. Mike spent $80 of it on blow, $10 on snacks, $15 on a zoo ticket,  and $25 on clothes from the thrift store.

* * *

 

The day after,  Mike went to the local library. A huge, old building that on the inside was so brown, it looked like chocolate.  Mike walked in, looked around and met the eyes of the librarian. He didn't go to him, he didn't need to anyway, he wasn't incompetent, he could navigate a library, also it was an unspoken rule to not bother past clients at their workplace unless absolutely necessary,  so Mike nodded at him, and walked the halls of the building. There were two floors to this library, the first being for toddlers, children, and the computer labs. The shelves and walls decorated with bright posters promoting child reading, computer safety, and whatever new thing they'd be hosting. He stopped by a poster with dogs on it and bold lettering: ‘ **PAWS FOR READING** ’ it said, they held reading sessions with people's dogs every other Tuesday and Saturday in the toddler area, _"_ _for ages 5 to 15”_ it also said. He missed the window by four years. Damn.

Reaching the spiral steps,  he walked up to the second level,  which was more for the elder parts of the community. Teens, adults, and the elderly could find their poisons here, and that's where he decided to stay. It wasn't as decorated as the lower floor, but still had its fair share of posters and a smaller computer lab with printers and a copy machine next to the glass room. In the middle of the floor facing the stairs was a large circular desk area where two bored women sat and filed paperwork. He waked up to the desk and waited for one to acknowledge him.

One of the women, a blonde haired woman no older than forty looked up at him from her work.

“May I help you?”

“Yeah,  I'm new.  I was looking for the plays.”

She gave him a look of annoyance, waiting for him to elaborate.  “Anything specific?” she asked, “Like a play title? Playwright?” Mike looked at her with confusion, then caught on.

“Yeah, uh,  Romeo and Juliet.”

She relaxed, stood and fixed her workspace. “Follow me,” she said, walking towards a forest of bookshelves. Mike followed close behind her,  passing glances between each row to see what would be between them. Between some, there would be people scanning for books, others would show someone at the far back of the shelves, working inside of a study cubicle. The female librarian walked into the opening between a pair of shelves, scanned the books and stopped, pulling out a book and handing it to him.

It was an old thing,  tattered from age and use.  Inside where yellow markings of highlighters and dark lines of pens. This book belonged to someone, he figured. He wondered who it was and if they missed their book or if they gave it away knowing that a poor bastard like Mike would pick it up. If the latter, he thanked them. If the former, he felt bad for them.

“Thank you.” The woman nodded, then walked off, possibly back to her desk. He flipped through the pages and made his way to a row of tables where there were a few others reading and studying. He sat at the far end of one table, at the other end was a girl with dyed hair and deep browns, eyeing him as he sat. He saw her, waved, and dove into his book. She didn't stop staring,  Mike looked at her again.

“You're that prostitute, yeah?” she whispered. Mike scrunched his nose, _'prostitute'_ made his job sound formal. He nodded anyway, she blushed.

“Could you…?” she pointed down, towards her crossed legs.

He looked around, really wondering if she just asked for service in a library. He sighed.

“Sure.”

He made a quick 50 bucks from her, plus a bonus of cherry chapstick and experience (it was, remarkably,  his first time fingering someone in a public area, let alone while they were studying for midterms).

Mike stayed at the library,  reading through the acts of Romeo and Juliet with stumbling ease over the _‘thees’, ‘thous’,_ and every other word that looked like it'd bite his tongue if he said it aloud, but nevertheless, he enjoyed it.  He smiled at their happiness, no matter how rushed or foolish it was, and frowned at their downfall, cried at their demise.  

He wanted to check it out,  but didn't have his ID for the library card, nor did he have a set address for them to send it to, or a date of birth. He left the book with the upstairs librarian and skipped down the large steps. The Shakespeare John was scanning books, looked up at Mike, and slyly beckoned him over.

“Why are you here, Mikey boy? Are you following me?” he sounded nervous,  Mike’s expression didn't change.

“No, I came to read. Romeo and Juliet. I liked it,  thanks.”

The John blinked at him, “You're welcome.” he looked around, “Say, do you have anywhere to be the next hour?”

“No.”

“Then stay for a moment. I'll get you before I leave.”

So Mike stayed, captive at the library. To not seem like he was loitering, he picked up some Dr.Seuss books, read them each three times, and found that _‘One fish, Two fish’_ was infinitely better than _‘The Cat in the hat’_ , and thought about which book Scott would like. Then figured that Scott would want to read them both, and then came to the conclusion that he, being richer and much more privileged than Mike and probably owning a library card, had already read them and was a _‘Cat in the hat’_ person. He just seemed like the type. He would praise the story and then note the fact that _‘One fish, Two fish’_  was just a rhyming book with no solid base.

He wondered where Scott was and if he was thinking about him and Dr. Seuss and which book Mike would like best. He wondered if Scott was on a “date” with Bob or giving his dad a heart attack by sucking off an official on tape. Probably, knowing Scott, he was doing both: getting filmed blowing the governor while thinking about Mike and children's books.

Mike felt uncomfortable with the thought all of the sudden. Didn't like thinking of Scott thinking of him while doing something like that. It was a dirty thing to think about at the library,  especially about his friend. It seemed invasive. He stopped. He felt a tap on his shoulder, it was the Shakespeare John.

“Mikey boy.”

“Sir.”

“Follow me.” he lead him out of the main room and discreetly behind the librarian desks, into a back room filled with boxes of new books, rolled posters, and spare chairs. The John looked at him, Mike figured he ought to know his name.

“What's your name?”

“Jeremy Werner.”

“Michael Waters. Mike.” He didn't know why he told him again, but it didn't matter. They stood there then, in a drawn-out stretch of silence. Jeremy fixed his glasses, took them off, rubbed them on his shirt sleeve, then put them back on.

“What play did you read?”

“Romeo and Juliet.” He was sure he said that.

“I see I left an impression on you.”

“I guess so.”

“Will you read more of Shakespeare? He’s an icon.”

“Probably.” he licked his lips, then remembered the cherry chapstick. He rubbed some on, it didn’t do much. Jeremy noticed it,and smiled in a way that reminded him of the one Scott had days ago before his burst of action. Jeremy Werner came close, Mike stepped back. He reminded him of Scott, like an older version of him that would exist somewhere. He had all the right moves for a Scott Favor in twenty years- black and grayed hair, dark eyes, wrinkles that told age, but not _the_ age. He was just...nice looking. Maybe Mike just found Scott in everyone. Jeremy smiled.

“Cherry chapstick?”

“Yeah.”

“Reminds me of another play. You and your cherry-” he let out a sigh. He really was a nut for these plays, dude could get off on them if he wanted, “ you would make a beautiful Helena.” Mike lifted a brow, he didn’t know what that meant exactly, but he’d humor him.

“The hell does that mean?”

Jeremy's eyes softened, he became suddenly dramatic, relaxed and sensitive, “Oh, Helena,” he began, just as Scott had before, but with much less excited gusto, but with a softer, just as passionate feeling “,goddess, nymph, perfect, divine,” he put a thumb on Mike’s lip, “to what, my love shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy, oh, how ripe in show, thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow.” Mike didn’t know what was going on, but he knew his name wasn’t Helena. He wanted to protest against the sudden burst, but Jeremy slipped his thumb past his lips for him to either bite or suckle, he didn’t know which, so he chose the latter.

Mike got $20 from sucking on Jeremy’s fingers, a free book (of his choosing) from the book boxes, one titled: _“Catch-22.”,_ and a ride from Jeremy to the Hustler home of lost boys.

When Mike was on the sidewalk, Jeremy leaned across the seat,

“I’ll be seeing you?”

Mike thought about it. He liked him, kinda. “Sure.”

Jeremy watched as mike applied more chapstick. “That pink. It suits you,” Mike looked at him, put the stick into his pocket and blushed. Jeremy floundered to save face, his own grew hot, “not like that, I just-you look like the type to use-uh-cherry chapstick- you just- it’s a nice-er-color. On-on you. I think you’re- forget it.” He was flustered. Mike was too. He figured that was okay.

Upstairs there was the sound of snickering. Mike ignored it. “Thanks, you too.”

Jeremy smiled. “I-I’ll be seeing you.”

Mike waved him goodbye from the sidewalk as he pulled away. “Why can’t they all be as weird as that guy?” he whispered to himself, watching his car zip down the street.  He heard a sudden boom of noise- hoots, whistles, and laughter behind him. He turned and squinted at the roof of the building, where dirty faced, unkempt, monkeyish boys of every make and model squawked and whooted.

-“ _‘I’ll be seeing you!’_ ” They mocked and jeered.

-“ _'Cherry chapstick!’_ ”

-“Mike's got a boyfriend!”

-“A boyfriend!’

-“Mike's made it! He's got a man!”

One of the older boys with long, ratty hair and an American flag bandanna stood, hands outstretched. He shushed the rowdy boys.

“Shh, shh, shhh! Boys, boys, we gotta keep it down,” a devilish smile crept on his face as the boys began to chuckle and smile, “we don't wanna tell _Scott!”_

A loud _“Oh!”_ erupted from the boys. They began to jump and hoot again on the roof, the sound hollow.  People down on the street looked up at the roof and kept walking. Mike cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Hey Chris!” he called up to the roof, the teen who started up their stomping and shouts again came to the edge. Mike threw him the finger. The boys were beside themselves in hysterics,  laughing, coughing, and crying as he walked into the building. His cheeks felt hot, hot from embarrassment. They knew how much he liked Scott and though it was all in good fun for them, it was insulting and awkward for Scott and him to be mocked and played with. Scott may hold and kiss Mike, that may be so, but Scott wasn't his boyfriend-well, Maybe he kinda was, but not really! He shook the idea from his head. Scott wasn't his boyfriend. He wasn't gay. Scott was his friend, his best friend.

The teens on the roof jumping and shouting filled the building. He listened, they were yelling at Scott now. Apparently, they were the butt of the jokes today.

Muffled by the brick roof was the sound of cheerful _‘whoops’_ and claps.

-“It's the mayor's boy, Scottie!” shouted one.

-“Bobster’s boy!”

-“Romeo’s home! Romeo is _home_!”

-“Where’s his Juliet?”

And they laughed like mad hyenas at that. With walls as thin as they were, it was no surprise that they heard them talking about it.

Scott yelled something back, he wasn't as calm as Mike had to be, he didn't need to watch himself and worry about his body shutting down on him like Mike did. If Scott wanted to fight, he'd fight. He was quite the no nonsense guy for a guy who took part in nonsense. Mike shrugged, walked into his room and threw his book on the bed before collapsing onto it. He buried his face in the blanket and began to relax to the noise. He heard steps reaching towards the door of his room. He turned his head to look at the wall and keep himself from suffocating in the blanket, behind him was the creaking sound of Scott’s leather shoes and the creak of the floor. He didn't turn to face him, he was too tired to turn around and humor him. Mike began to doze as the bed contorted to his shape and the heat of the summer afternoon began to really settle in on him.

The bed sunk, Scott bridging himself over Mike, straddling him, a leg and arm on both sides of Mike, before dropping onto him like a square cage onto an animal. He cupped Mike with his arms, sliding them under the resting man's body, scooping him into his arms and laying on his back. He dropped his head into the space of Mike's head and shoulder. Lazily, he breathed on his neck, causing the blonde to shiver and groan.

“If I profane with my unworthiest body this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Scott mumbled from some photographic memory, from deep, organized catacomb within the recesses of his mind. He poured forth the words of Romeo, the same name he was mocked with before and Mike’s face twinged with a quick smile, the warm breath that came from Scott's mouth as he recited, left a cool condensation on his neck.

“Good Scott,” he grumbled, “you do wrong your body too much,” he shifted under Scott, who lifted his head in surprise at Mike's response, “which mannerly devotion shows in this. For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”

Scott got excited then, as if he had found something rare. As if Mike himself were a one-in-a-million type deal. With a wild grin, he sat on his heels. Mike, with hazy, lethargic movement, sat upright and blinked. Scott was wild with excitement, like a puppy given attention. Scott looked strange in Mike’s hazy vision, he wasn’t wearing his signature outfit, instead, he donned something more formal- a dark turtleneck, dark gray blazer, and slacks. Scott crossed his legs on the bed.

“Have not saints lips and holy palmers too?”

“Yeah, Pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”

Scott looked around, chewed his lip. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, he was so excited. It was clear his love of Shakespeare, of theater, and of being humored so. He scooted closer to Mike, reached for his hand and grabbed it, rubbing his coarse thumb over the raised veins of his friend’s hand, over the red knuckles.

“Oh, well, then dear saint let lips do what hands do. They prat, grant me, lest my faith turn to despair.”

Mike became suddenly flustered at the gentleness of Scott’s touch, how his voice took a soft, bolder tone as he said his lines as if they were his own words, his own inner speech that he alone had formed and created.

“S-saints don’t move, though grant, for prayers’ sake.” He stuttered out, his hands became sensitive to Scott’s caressing, ticklish and sweaty. Scott came a bit closer, deep in the back of his ear, beneath the thud and patter of his frantic heart, he could hear the snickers of the boys nearby, if they were doing so now, or in the near foreseeable future, Mike didn’t know for certain. What he did know, was that right at that current moment, it was just him, Scott and the words of Willy Shakes.

“Then move not,” he smiled, showing those lovely teeth, the stretch of his lips, “while my prayer’s effect I take.”

He lifted Mike's hand and placed a quick kiss on the vein ridged skin. He felt his heartbeat all over, could feel it in his toes and he hoped that Scott couldn't feel it on his lips, and he hoped that the laughter he heard was only part of his cruel imagination.

“Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

Mike knows there's a script- he wanted to follow it, not to diverge his friend from his game, but the intense strain and stress within him,  the hard pulling and beating of his heart and lungs and each sensation that washed in him and chilled and shocked him. It became tough to speak around. 

“You've given me your sin.”

  
“Sin from my lips? Trespass sweetly urged. Give me my sin again.”

He kissed him. Kissed him softly, kissed him as lightly as a feather dropping onto a pillow. He felt like the thin page of a book that has fluttered to the meet its twinned pages, before being pressed by the heavy shell. Mike, the fluttered page, Scott his pressing case.

It will always be strange to Michael, the enigma and the near paradoxicality of Scott Favor and his denial of his supposed gayness that went against, by full face,  his enjoyment of kissing and cuddling the same sex. Namely, his enjoyment of kissing Mike.

  
When Scott released him after a small moment, Mike was reduced to a mess of quick, breathy words: “You kiss by the book.” he said, letting Scott's grin warm his cheeks.

“You'd make a great Juliet,  Mike.”

“Would I?”

Before Scott could respond with an ' _of course!'_  and another long-winded fact sheet of Shakespeare knowledge, the stomps of jumping feet were heard reaching their floor, a boy, sweating and breathless poked his head into the room. With a breathy, shallowed voice, he said:

“Mike, your brother's here.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QL3EZwSJAh0
> 
> BAsically, part one of two where i have these two meet up lol.

The first time Mike can really remember seeing Scott, not meeting him, but _seeing_ him, was when he was six years old and riding the school bus home. He could still smell the faint dust of the bus, the stench of the leather seat and the creak of the metal joints when he thought about it.

But, when he saw Scott, it was when his bus, an ugly, rickety thing that huffed and squeaked whenever it was asked to do more than sit idle,  pulled to a stuttering stop at a light. He was napping (he was always “napping”. That was what it was called before it became clear that no one just _naps_ during a heated conversation), head resting on the cold, vibrating glass of the window. It was like magic to him,  like a spell was cast unto him that caused him to open his eyes, blink in confusion, and look out the window. When he did, across the way, in a dark, shiny new car, were a pair of dark orbs staring at him. They were unreadable, those dark circles, encased by low,  uninterested eyelids. Mike couldn't see his entire face, but he was interested, taken in by the dull gaze. He scrambled, in that way that small children do, with uncoordinated limbs and excited movements, to see more of this boy beside him. He brought his legs into the seat,  and sat on them, looking down at the boy in the car. He saw more of him then and noticed how that seemingly natural pout on his face creakingly upturned, his dark eyebrows lifted- he pulled a little smile on his round little face. He waved at him from the bus, Scott (who Mike didn't know to be Scott yet) waved back. Mike felt a connection then, at that stoplight,  felt connected to the young man beside him. He never forgot those eyes, dark, perfectly circular, and soft.

The bus started with a jolt, and he watched Scott as the bus moved forward, his heart jumped then sank as the shiny black car turned off to the right, down some busy street, those black eyes pulling from Mike's blues.

That was also the first time Scott had seen Mike.  He was also six, ready to turn seven in a few day's time.  He was sulking in the back seat of the “family” car, driven by a large chauffeur who paid not a bit of attention to him.  His arms were crossed, hands pressed to his sides as if to warm them. He was compelled to kick his bandaged legs, but the angry look the man upfront had given him made his thin legs feel like the bones inside them were made of lead.

He looked down to his legs lifted them straight up to see the band-aid on one knee, and compared it to the undamaged one beside it.  He had slipped on gravel playing tag and didn't realize the deep scratch and the blood that slid down his leg until he felt the strange sensation of a liquid. He dropped his legs, huffed. He felt a compulsion,  an urge to turn up his head and look out his window.

Outside,  he spotted a huge, dirty yellow,  rectangular whale of a machine stopped next to him. There was only one student he could see on the bus- a sleepy-eyed, blonde boy with a red blotch on his head from the window he slept on. He was looking down at Scott, Scott looked up.  He smiled at the drowsiness of the other child, he looked foolish with his confused, squinting eyes and weird, pudgy face. He looked, Scott concluded in his six-soon-to be- seven brain, both like the child he would bully and one that he would befriend and hold close. He saw the boy frantically move about in his seat, nearly knocking his head against the window, and waved. He waved back. Something inside told Scott that this boy, this boy on that bus, was going to be someone he’d want to remember.

When the light turned green, the bus and car parted ways, the blonde kid on the bus never breaking eyes with him, until the car was out of sight, and his bus forward.

Scott realized he didn’t have any friends. It wasn’t that he didn’t want any, he just didn’t have any to call his own. He frowned. That kid on the bus probably had friends. A whole slew of them in their own little group that did things like catch frogs with their hands and lightning flies in jars. He suddenly felt jealous, irritated at his imagination. He wanted to meet that boy and give him a what for being so rude as to appear to have companions and friends and perhaps parents that did things with him. He huffed again, this time not in boredom, but in childish frustration. He pouted, frowned, and stomped his foot (the foot of his uninjured leg, of course). The chauffeur looked back at him through the mirror, concerned about his young driving companion.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s the matter? Are you upset about the principal? Your father will-”

Scott groaned loud, cutting off the sentence. Even as a child, Scott Favor held a large abhorrence towards his father. At this time, thirteen years ago, Scott’s father had not reached the title of ‘Mayor’, but was still the head of many things the young Scott could not know and never wished to know. All he knew then, and even now, was that his father had never the time or cared enough to be intimate with him. There were no games of catch on the lawn, no lap sitting and storytelling. It just worked today, work tomorrow, and work in the future. Scott twisted his head back out the window, searching the zooming cars for a sign of another bus to stare into.

“I wanna see mom.”

The chauffeur choked at this, the car jerked to the side suddenly, scaring the young boy. The topic of Scott’s mother was a very sad one, one that was to be kept on hush amongst the staff. The maids who served her were silent when he walked by, whispered low when he was to be around. The butlers who carried him to bed gave him snacks and tutored him never once spoke of the time when a woman had lived in the house. It was set up so that anyone from the outside would assume there never was a mother for Scott. That he had somehow sprung from the dirt, a fully formed baby, and suckered into the Favor home. Even Scott himself used to doubt that he had a mother, and when it slipped clear to him from a letter in the mail that told of a woman who once lived and loved his father and loved him for a moment, he cried for days. He had to pry and dig to figure out who she was, where she was and was met with the grim stare if a concrete slate planted in the ground. His heart took a terrible blow,  shattered to pieces and that hurt turned to anger, rage unimaginable for a child. He became furious at his distant father,  enraged by the secrecy, and most of all, angry at his mother. She didn't _have_ to die, he felt.  She didn't _need_ to die and leave him alone,  she could've taken him along and he would've been fine with that.

The driver peeked at him,  a heavy weight settled in the car.  He could see an angry red paint Scott's tan cheeks as he stared out the car window.  

“I don't think I can-”

“Oh, who cares what you think!” he shrieked. He wanted his mother, he wanted to see her and she wanted to see that boy and yell at him for making him think of his mother and how lonely he was.  The chauffeur winced at the noise. He felt terrible for his young companion, but it wasn't his place to take him just anywhere, only where his father told him to take his son. Sticking to his duty, as he always did, he pulled up to the large home of his young master and sighed heavily.  At some point, Scott had begun to cry, weeping in silence as he wiped uselessly at the never-ending tears. His hands were drenched, doing nothing for his wet face. A butler came to the car, wary about why they hadn't exited the vehicle. When he spotted the young Favor in the back seat, moaning and weeping, his small body jerking with coughs and sniffles, he stepped away and waited.  The day, once bright with autumn air, became dark, gloomy. It seemed that clouds formed over the Favor estate and only the estate. They butler looked up, glancing up at the large window that oversaw the front of the home, and tensed at the sight of the portly, drooping figure of the head of the household. He looked forlorn, saddened by something. It was as if he had seen the sad sight in the car,  and felt deeply sorry for the image. He moved from the window, sitting in his office chair, back turned from the glooming outside world. He had work to do, had meetings to plan and business to attend to. He didn't have the time for his son's antics. Not today. He picked up the phone, punched in with heavy fingers a number, a very important number, and planned his next dinner party.

It wasn't for Scott, not that he didn't love his son or didn't remember his birthday, no not that, but why would he plan a birthday for a small child, when he needed to get this deal? Why do something meaningless for a child with no friends to his name,  instead of doing something for him and the betterment of the family?

When the crying ceased, it was only due to him falling asleep.  He was slumped against the car door, his tanned skin showed the red of his cheeks brightly, his tears making his skin glow. The butler, seeing this notified the chauffeur who did his part of the job: getting out, carefully opening the door, and releasing the small child from the confines of his seatbelt. Scott startled a bit, opened his heavy eyes a slither as he felt himself being pressed against a warm, hard surface of ridges and buttons. He clung to the suit, his fingers curling around the finely pressed lapels of the chauffeur's suit. He handed him off to the butler, a very old man with a bald head, deep wrinkles, and thin white hair. He took him, gently, and spared another glance to the high window above. The father was no longer there, he felt a pit open in his stomach.

* * *

Across the way, across many ways, was the small figure of Mike, hopping off the bus steps and onto the dirt of his bus stop. He was supposed to walk home with Richard, who was supposed to be standing there and waiting for him, but he wasn’t there. Again. Mike, in his six-soon-to-be-seven brain, figured that his brother wasn’t very good at remembering to pick him up. He didn’t hold it against him, he would’ve forgotten to pick himself up too.

He left the stop, walking down the long dirt path that led up to his home and the few others like it. It was hot, it was boring, and Mike's mind began to think up hypotheticals and dinner. When he reached his home, he walked up to the cluttered porch and kicked off his shoes, leaving them beside a cracked flowerpot. The door was unlocked, as it always was, and Mike walked in, looking around to make sure he was officially alone. He walked to the back of the house and into his mother's room. It was dark and empty, the bed made and a large candle with a picture of Richard and he taped onto was burning. He left the room, and into the next, the one he shared with Richard- their room was not nearly as clean as their mother's, with his few toys laying scattered on the rug, but it had more personality to it. There were handmade dream catchers on the wall, clutter of paper and crafts on their dresser and walls. The way the room looked, smelled, made him relax when he thought of loneliness. They had so much stuff, he and Richard, that was thrown about, that it assured him that Richard wouldn't stay gone for long.

Mike was grateful for his house, his small family, even if he was always alone. Sometimes Richard would be home, sleeping on the couch, but that wasn't quite enough. His mom was never home when Mike was home, so he couldn’t tell what she was like after a long day of work or what her cooking tasted like, or any of those things the kids in his class talked about, but whenever she was to catch him out and about, she would scoop him into her arms and kiss his cheeks.

He dropped his empty backpack onto the couch, and sat next to it, his knees to his chest and his feet on the cushion.  He looked at their television, then at the wall clock surrounded by Richard’s art. He was alone. Utterly, completely, alone. He dropped his chin on his knees and began to think about his day, thinking back as far as he could- he remembered the field trip to the potato museum, the history of the potato, his nosebleed on his way back to school, how they made him sit in the stuffy nurse’s office while she called his mom to ask her to pick him up. How his mother didn’t get the call, and how he wanted to tell the nurse that his mom never has her phone and that even if she did, she wouldn’t answer it. He remembers how he kicked his legs while he sat in the chair, how his new shoes scuffed the floor with a loud squeak that bounced off the walls and made the nurse frown at him from her desk.

Bored and brooding, Mike stood on the couch and did a testing bounce on the cushion, the course couch cover tickling his feet. He jumped once, not particularly high out of fear he'd fall, then jumped again. He gave himself an ego boost, contrasting himself with the unhappy child in the car. Mike was content. He was as content as a small child without friends or a normal family could be, he figured. He kept bouncing and jumping, thinking deeply about a boy he had never met, never seen before in his life, yet felt he knew so well.

He jumped down to the wood floor, landing with a loud thud, and grabbed the portable radio from the table and walked out to the field, barefoot. As he walked, he started to think about the bus ride home and that boy in the car, how dark his eyes were and how they looked soft, like the fuzzy shadow of a ball in a dark room. How his eyelids were so low that he looked bored out of his mind in the backseat of such a fancy car. Mike thought about him and how he looked like the type that Mike often avoided as if he were some bully that would tease and jeer at him on the playground for his strange ability to fall asleep at random.

He kept thinking, thinking more than he ever had before, as he walked into the field of tall grass behind his house. He walked so far into the grass in his thoughtful daze,  that his house looked miles away. He dropped his radio onto the ground and lay next to it. He turned it on, tuned it to a local station, and laid on his back as the song played. A man singing about Georgia and how he missed it seeped into his ears, the melody and voice mixing finely, making him sleepy.

When he closed his eyes, he saw how the other boy smiled when he looked at him, how his eyes lifted and he waved at him with that smile. He felt his own smile form. He betted, with the very little pocket change he had, that that boy, sitting in the back of such a fancy car, was going home to a big house with lots of rooms and parents and maybe a brother who remembered to pick him up from the bus stop, or a mom who carried her phone with her and answered when the nurse called about his nosebleeds and maybe, even, that boy was going home to a dad who took him to baseball games and helped him ride bikes.

How could a boy with all that sit unhappily in the back seat of a car? Then he thought: How could a person with so much look like they had nothing at all?

His smile fell. He had thought too much.

Mike had made himself upset thinking about that boy. He huffed, laying in the tall grass on the warm dirt, staring at the blue sky, and watching the shadows of birds above him and the slow drift of the stretched, thin clouds as the tips of the hairgrass swayed in the fall air. 

He _hoped_ that the boy wasn't lonely and friendless. He _hoped_ that he had lots of money and toys and maybe a mom and dad who lived with him and loved him and weren't as mean and angry as he looked. Mike didn’t like thinking of a stranger in bad situations. He wanted everyone to be as content as he was and more so.  

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm coming back to edit this don't worry lol- theres errors all over and i'm tryna think


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> really weird. angsty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever argue with someone and you just decide to try an fuck em while they're upset? No? Well scott does cause he doesnt know how to behave//  
> This chapter is like,, domestic au type stuff so dont think too deep into the "dont you have my furniture" cause they legit live together lol

“Don’t! Just, Shush! Shh!” He yells at him, presses a finger to his lips and shushes the doe boy. He doesn’t want help from him, not right now. Mike doesn’t need help from anyone- _especially_ not this fucker.  

Scott looks shaken. Taken aback by the outburst because he’s confused. Mike has never shouted at him this way-

“I’m sorry-”

“Scott, please.”

“I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry.” 

He’s coming closer, closer to Mike and Mike turns away because he doesn’t want to see this attack coming. He’s seen the rest of them full frontal and he can’t handle it. He makes his hands into fists, bows his head as the floor creaks with every step from his supposed “friend” because that’s what they are, right? Two peas in a pod? Birds of a feather, and all that jazz? 

He puts his hands up,  he wants Scott to stay as far from him as possible. He feels dizzy. He's going to conk out soon, hopefully right now,  right here so he doesn't have to argue and yell anymore because he'll say something mean, something biting. He's dry heaving, shaking and cold. It's probably the withdrawal finally setting in and he doesn't know if he’s going to keel over, vomit or cry.  Whichever came first, he hoped it was soon.

He feels arms around his shoulders. Feels a hot chest against his back. He can feel the warmth of Scott’s flesh through his jacket and something inside him curses him for wearing such a dirty fuckin’ thing and letting Scott touch him, but another part of him is slipping out of his conscious state and he wishes all of him could slip away with it because he knows  where it’s going. It’s slipping into Scott’s warmth. Into his body that burns like volcanic lava and then it grows inside that body, goes down multiple pathways of veins and arteries- coming out from the tips of his fingers that he uses to run along the graffitied walls of abandoned buildings. They come out of his mouth when he’s yelling or delivering a line or another pizza from the place up the street that they shouldn’t be ordering from; It grows with his hair, that same hair that Scott so often fusses over what to do with-  _ “Should I slick it back or let it go? Cut it?”  _ to which Mike would always say  _ “Cut it and burn it.”  _ and if Scott didn’t like the answer, Mike’d say:  _ “If you cut it, give it to me, ‘cause I always feel like I’m gonna lose you” _ _.  _

“Mike, I’m sorry.” 

It’s muffled. The timbre of his voice still shakes the cloth of the dusty denim, still reverberates through Mike’s body, as it were an organ in an empty cathedral. It makes him sigh. Makes him cough.

“Why are you sorry? I yelled at you...”

“I’ve been a bad friend.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have.” 

He felt warm lips on his neck. Felt the slight slickness of saliva, or was it chapstick? He couldn’t tell, Scott always mixed the two. Perhaps it was another concoction of his.

The reverb was back again inside his lonely church. Someone slammed their fists on organ keys. Loud chaos filed him.

Once again, where first it was the happenstance of speech, another wetness was pressed against his neck. Mike felt his hairs stand, felt his skin bump up and twitch. They became flush on his skin, Scott's lips. Moving in a rhythmic fashion, gliding over goosebumps and fine hairs- he felt the tip of his tongue slip along with his mouth and with this feeling, this near overwhelming feeling of Scott, Mike lolled his head, feeling his own lips part and his tongue grace the tops of razer straight teeth. 

Mike lets himself sigh, lets his body shudder in Scott’s hug and he keeps his eyes closed because oh no, he doesn’t want to see him. Doesn’t want to see his friend running his calloused hands along his stomach or those same fingertips trace up his happy trail because if he sees it, he’ll believe it and if there was ever a thing he had hoped to never believe, it would be that.  Scott presses himself closer, tighter on Mike’s back. Brings him closer to his chest as he devours his neck with the massage of his lips. Perhaps he grinds his front against his back in one long, slow moment, and perhaps when Mike tilts his head back and groans in _that_ way when Scott kisses lower down his neck, he does it again. One more time so that Mike can dig his chewed up nails into Scott’s knuckles. So that he can grab those hot hands and interlace their fingers, to anchor him to his back.

“Ah.”

“I hurt you?”

Yeah. Every,” he breathes. Takes deep, shuddering breath, “every time I lose you.”

He stops kissing his neck, pulls back his head but doesn’t move away. Thinks for a moment, studies the browns and blondes of Mike’s hair, trying to recall when the back of his head had gotten so dark.

“Don’t you have my hair? My clothes? My furniture?”

“Yeah. I have it all.”

Scott pulled his hand from Mike’s grip then turned him around, looked him in the face. Dark eyes that, no matter what Scott would say, were inhumanly dark met deep and troubled blues that carried the heavy weight of overthinking. 

“Then why are you losing me? Huh?” He questioned with that voice. That meatheaded voice and inside, Mike could hear those organ tones echoing inside with each word and with each echo, sunlight shone through a stained glass window. Red light and blue. Alarming, and for the first time, he didn’t have an answer for Scott. Every time Scott gave him a question he thought would run the blonde in circles, Mike would conjure up an answer that would turn the idiot on his head. He looked to the side.

“Cause I can’t even keep myself close. ‘Course I’m losing you. I’ll lose you.”

Scott shook his head, kissed the blonde’s cheek and whispered in his ear.

“Mikey, something’s telling me that I’m the one who’s gonna lose you.”

Mike blinked, slid his hands around his friend’s waist and up his back. He hugged him and spoke into his neck.

“Nonsense. Always speaking nonsense.” He took a moment, felt Scott’s arms embrace him again. A hand pressed flat against his spine, pushing them closer to one another. Mike started playing with the coarse hair at the nape of Scott’s neck. It had relaxed him when he did it, for it was a mindless action and gentle. Every hair that he brushed with his fingers to every strand he rolled between his tips, was a mindless action. “You’re a big knucklehead, you know that? You’re a fuckin’ meathead.”

Scott didn’t respond.

“But, I love you.”

“You love me?” He sounded excited.

“Yeah. I love you, man.”

“I love you too. You’re my friend. I love you.”

Mike blinked. Suddenly, he felt like crying. Felt like falling into tearful hysterics in his arms. 

“I-I think I’m in love with you, Scottie.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they’re different.”

“Well, are you sure you’re in love with me?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll help you figure it out.” 

He sounded so sure. So positive that he could somehow “help” but he’s still a fucking meathead. Dense. He’s a dense little boy who doesn’t understand how that works and he's so naive because you can't just  _ do _ that.  You can't just  _ help _ -

Scott kisses him again on the cheek. Then kisses the edge of his mouth. He was seeking permission to melt him in only the way Scott could. Mike turns his head, giving him that permission he sought. He kissed him fully, pushing ever so slightly to get Mike to push back. He knew that Scott liked to fight with him over everything, he didn't assume kissing was one of them. 

This was surreal, kissing Scott Favor. He had seen him do it with Johns and the other boys and they were so fake and calculated that they never looked right to him.  Scott liked girls. Liked holding, kissing, and caressing girls, but Scott also liked boys in a matter. He wasn’t  _ gay _ , but he certainly enjoyed the momentary releases that he felt with other men his age and older. He liked the moment of them, the split second of embracing them, but he had made it very clear that Mike was his ultimate favorite. His top sweetheart. His be all end all.

Scott suddenly flipped the tide of the moment. He licked him. Not some sexy ‘open your lips’ lick,  no, a full on lick. Mike smiled, knowing that the black-haired buffoon was grinning like a fool.

“You're fuckin’ gross, dude.”

“For what? Licking you?”

“That wasn't sexy. That ain't sexy. You're an idiot.” 

Scott laughed. It wasn't fake actor’s laughter,  but something genuine and warm. Mike couldn’t help but crack a grin and pass a chuckle at Scott’s playful antics. In the distance, he heard the raspy  _ toot _ of a train whistle nearby. Where were they again? California? New York? He couldn't remember.

“It's not sexy, it's affectionate. Animals do it all the time.”

“I ain't your animal, Scott.” Mike looked at him now, his smile fell for a moment. A well of surprise fear bubbled inside of him and began to overrun with the black water of doubt and trepidation. Scott furrowed his brow at the drop on Mike’s face, but he didn’t skip a beat:

“All humans are animals.” He responded matter-of-factly, raising his eyebrows in a puppy dog way. Mike was no animal, but he'd be damned if Scott wasn't part retriever.

“Mammal doesn't mean animal.” Mike whispered thoughtfully.  Scott sighed, rolled his eyes, looked up at the ceiling, and then back to Mike. 

“I don't see why I can't affectionately lick you.” 

It was laughable how hard he was trying to plead this case.  Because it was, in fact, a joke because Scott didn't like  _ boys _ _ , _ he likes Mike.  He likes girls and he likes Mike.  Mike likes, no, he loves Scott because Scott is strange and beautiful and equally as much considerable damaged goods as he was. They were meant to be, he believed. They were built for each other, unable to exist without each other. In a perfect world, they would be together. Mike believed all this, rolled in it and relished in it every night he lay next to Scott, every day he spent with Scott.

“Lick me again. I dare ya.”

And he did. Scott licked him again, right on his lips.  Licks him like a dog on the mouth, and Mike laughs. He laughs loudly as Scott licks him on the cheek with the tip of his tongue then kisses him on the nose. 

“Affectionate.”

“Affectionate licking.”

Scott met his lips again, kissed him like he kissed his neck before and  _ oh no _ ,  Mike can taste the sweat on his lips and tongue-  _ sweet Christ, _ he can't believe how damn lucky he is to have  _ the _  Scott Favor’s tongue in his mouth, twisting and tickling his own and feeling his taste buds drag against the roof of his mouth.

They tilt and turn their heads in unison.  In amazing synchronization that came as natural as a mother's love.  They are in synch in this way and any other way, because they are  _ “ _ _ best friends" _ _.  _ Because they're _ “ _ _ partners in crime” _ _ ,  _ and being in synch, well, that's what best friends do.

They’re best friends. The best of friends. The very thing that’s very good to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theyre gonna fuck lol}  
> Shit i forgot the song uh :  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOC1V04dzfo


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They argue. They kiss, etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs are 'Trouble' By Cage the Elephant and 'Every other freckle' by Alt-J for that nice lil make out thing they did

They pulled up to a shabby diner in the desert. The place was called _'_ _Deacon’s Dine n’ Drive’_ , with a gas station and mechanic shop next to it bearing the same Deacon name. Mike assumed that they must be in this Deacon person's world since he owned two stores and a gas station. There were already a number of cars lined up at the front, forcing Scott to park their tacky little thing to the far side and out of view from any seat inside. When he parked, Mike got off first, waved to some girls walking out,  and waited for his friend. Scott got off the bike, flexed his hands and checked his pockets for cash.

They walked into the air-conditioned diner and almost fainted at the sudden change in temperature. A woman was speeding around the diner, and called to them to have a seat just before a largely built man in a trucker’s cap slapped her ass, to which she yelled at him. Apparently, his name was Ronald.

They sat in a shadowed booth, one that had windows facing the trucker lots.  They were in Nevada, or maybe it was Arizona? Mike nor Scott kept proper track.  It was Mike's job to do it, but once he fell in love with Scott, he saw no reason to count days and hotel stays, felt no inclination to mark up the second-hand map they picked up at a road stop somewhere in Canby. Hell, the only way he remembered that was because it was the last place he kissed Scott.

Now they sat at this dingy diner, Mike messing with the drink menus that sat in a container in front of the window, Scott twiddling his thumbs over the partially ripped Texas on their map. He watched Mike sift through the laminated menus, clenching and unclenching his jaw. Mike picked a menu, it was a dirty thing from years of use and abuse with a burgundy backdrop and a picture of a Shirley Temple on the side that faced Scott.

Mike flipped it over to the Temple side, read over it,  then with no excitement or vigor:

“You think there's a law about gettin’ a beer before 5?”

“I don’t know.”

“I was thinking of, uh,  ordering this here,” He shows the menu to Scott, who leans over to see what Mike was pointing at, “ cause I had one back in uh, god I forgot where, but-but it's only 3 in afternoon so you think there’s a law against that?”

Scott shrugged, he wasn’t the best at remembering laws. He didn’t even know what state they were in.

He then tapped the table,  not selecting a state, but to get  Mike’s attention.

“What do you wanna eat? You look like you're starving.”

“Nothing,  I'm not hungry.”

Scott doubted that.  Mike’s skin looked clammy, his eyes had terrible bruising.

“Dude, you look like a skeleton. You need to eat.”

“I'm a teenager, I always look like I need to eat. It’s the new fad, to look like I need to eat.”

“I know.”

Scott says it flatly after another failed attempt to get a waitress to take their order. The place was busy, so he wouldn't bother her too much, but he was starving and Mike looked as if another hour without a meal would kill him. Mike puts the drink menu back, flips through them again then mimics Scott’s thumb twiddle.

“You want a salad, Mikey? I know you're not eating meat since the petting zoo.”

Mike looked down at the map. Read the bolded letters that spelled ‘North Carolina’’.

“Yeah, I'll take a salad. No ranch.”

“That's gross, Mikey. No ranch?”

“I’m vegan.”

“So what do you use?”

“Vinaigrette.”

“Alright.”

The waitress finally came over,  looking tired. Her red curls fell minutes ago, he noticed,  as when she first greeted them, they were full and shiny. Mike put his head on the table and looked out the huge window. He watched vultures land on the gas station canopy, then saw it scurry off when a large 14er trudged up the drive and into the lot.

“What can I help you with?” She asked in as much of a cheerful tone as she could muster. Scott read her nametag, it says _‘Candy’_.

“My friend and I are ready to order.”

Candy pulled her order book from her pocket, shifted her weight on a foot, write the order.  Scott ordered a breakfast of a French toast (without eggs or bacon, because the last time he ordered meat, Mike left the restaurant crying), and a glass of coke. He got Mike's salad and vinaigrette. Mike piqued up,

“Hey, uh, do you do Flaming Dr.Peppers here? Before 5?”

Candy popped her gum and gave him an uninterested look.

“Do you have your ID?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then I’m sorry, Hun. Would you like a lemonade?”

Mike looked at her, then at Scott who was paying attention to the 14 wheeler outside.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She mumbled a confirmation and when she was done taking the order, she closed her booklet with a fwip. Before she walked off and into the kitchen, she looked at their map.

“What’s this map for? Y’all travellin’?”

Mike smiled, “Yes.”

“Where you comin’ from?”

Scott answered her, passing a quick look to the paper.

“North.”

“We’re on a road trip,” Mike interjected with his grin. Candy smiled, nodded. "Portland to North Carol."

“How old are y’all? A lil' too young to be out on the road. How is ya gettin’ around?”

“We’re both nineteen, Ma’am. Getting around on his bike.” Mike jutted his chin at Scott who grinned with pride at the mention of his bike. It was his pride and joy,  any mention of it gave him an ego boost. Candy nodded then walked off to the kitchen to give their orders to the chef. Scott directed his attention back to Mike who was folding a napkin in preparation for a drawing session.

“You're an idiot,” Scott told him as Mike began doodling what he saw when he thought about the Carolinas.

“Did we come here to eat or to insult my intelligence?” he responded, not looking up from his blue strokes. Scott smiled.

“Both, maybe. You can't just ask for alcohol without your ID.”

“I have my ID.”

“Why'd you lie?”

“Got nervous. Ordering makes me nervous.”

Scott took that into account. Shook his head and leaned forward to see the drawing.  Mike blocked his view with a hand, Scott sat back.

“Wouldn't have made it better. We're only nineteen.”

Mike made a sound of agreement. After a few more strokes of the blue office pen they stole from Gus, he put it on the table and proudly showed Scott his drawing. It was of a coonhound with the body of a beer-bellied man, sitting in a lawn chair and smoking a cigarette with a sawed off on his lap, staring at flying ducks. In big letters, the name ‘N. Carolina’, was written in the sky. Scott whistled.

“That's nice,  Mikey. I swear you get better every time you pick up a pen.”

Mike raised his brows, turned the napkin towards himself to look it over. He squinted in mock disgust.

“You sure? Looks funky.”

“It's a good funky.”

“Thanks,  Scott.” Mike looked around the diner, not looking for anything in particular, just looking around. He sighed and put his face into his hands, sighing again. Scott figured he had a headache from lack of food.

“S’wrong?” He asked, slightly concerned.

“I wanna get buzzed,  Scottie.”

Scott smiled, “You wanna get high at three in the afternoon?”

Mike grimaced, shook his head with his hands. “Nah, I wanna get drunk. Shitfaced.”

“That’s much better, but you're only nineteen."

“Yeah, well, you know what they say, ” He tiredly slid a hand down his face until his palm cupped his cheek and dropped his elbow onto the table.  With the other, he grabbed the pen with one hand and scribbled on the faux wood.  “ it's legal and 5 o’clock somewhere.”

Scott smirked at him and made a grab at the scribbling pen in Mike’s hand, trying to keep him from damaging the surface. Mike looked up at him from his scribbling and met Scott’s eyes. His smirk turned into this ugly, goofy grin and it made Mike crack a smile.

“What?”

“Do you even know what that means? That 5 o’clock thing?”

Mike chuckled, licked his bottom lip and tilted his head with a smile. A look that playfully said: “Humor me”. And Scott did just that.

“Well, It means- oh, thank you, Ms. Candy- it’s like this: you go to work from nine to five, right?”

Mike thinks, playfully says: “No.”

Scott rolled his  eyes, “Well yeah not _you_ , or me, but normally people work from nine to five.”

“Okay.”

“So when you’re working, you obviously aren’t drinking.”

“Unless you’re the taster.” Mike chuckled out.  Scott put up a hand, laughing- For some reason, this whole thing was funny to them both. Something about what they were saying, or maybe it was what happened when a person became close to someone. Everything became so funny.

Scott pointed, swallowed a laugh, “Quit it-” Mike nodded enthusiastically, a tight smile on his face, “alright so _unless_ you’re the taster, you’re not drinking.”

“Okay..”

“And once five comes around, you’ve had a stressful day, you wanna get a drink in.”

“At five.”

“At five.”

Mike nodded understandingly, chuckling as he remembered the conversation.  He sipped at his lemonade. It was a pink lemonade with strawberries at the bottom and sugar along the rim. Scott drank his Coke. He finished his sip and pointed at the lemonade. Mike looked at him, quirked a brow, then slid his cup to the side defensively, all while drinking it.

“C’mon let me get a sip.”

“No, you'll upset your stomach.”

“How?” Scott questioned.

“You can't mix these flavors. Vanilla Coke and pink lemonade don't mix.”

Scott waved him off, “Yeah, yeah.  You're so stingy.”

Then they grinned.  Candy came over with their food, Scott folded the map up and put it into his bag.  They said their thanks and Candy walked off to a group of truckers ready for their bill.

Scott picked at his French toast, it was smothered in powdered sugar.  He wasn't big on sweet food and regretted not telling them to go light with the sugar.  Mike poured the raspberry vinaigrette Candy gave him over his salad.

He caught Scott watching him,  then stopped pouring.

“What?”

“Don't like the sugar.” Scott huffed, pointing to his plate. Mike shrugged.

“Serves you right for ordering it. Caked in butter,  that's dairy. The powder is dairy-”

“Why are you treating me like this?”

“Cause I'm disappointed.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

They ate their “brunch”, figured that the food there was pretty alright, and ordered something to-go for dinner. There weren't many options to suit Mike's veganism, so he settled for another salad and doused it before they left. Scott paid the bill, asked if there was a bathroom he could use and went to it, leaving Mike with the food and map.

Mike walked out of the diner and into the light of the setting desert sun. He looked at the sky and saw no clouds above, only the large bodies of winged birds, flying in a circle. He figured that was alright. The bell of the diner door chimed and out came Scott,  carrying two bottles of water and squinting at the brightness of the sun. He walked towards Mike and the loaded bike, the bag of their belongings sitting next to the back wheel, while Mike sat backward on the seat, still staring at the reddening sky.

“Hey, Scott?”

“Yeah?” he said, coming up to the bike, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his gloves. He glanced at the sky to see what Mike was seeing, saw nothing of importance, and put the water into their bag. Mike looked at him, licked his lips.

“Where we stayin’ tonight?”

“Uh, I don’t know, man,” Scott smiled, laughed a little, “I’ve no fuckin’ clue.”

Mike looked down, “Oh.”

“You fill the tank up?”

“Yeah, I did it while you were pissin’.” Mike responded, pulling open the map. Clearly, since they were in a red desert and somehow still in the USA, he figured they were somewhere in Arizona. Scott walked over to look at the map too. Mike pointed at the Carolinas.

“That’s where you wanna go, Mikey? Huh? Carolina?”

“Yeah. I wanna go there.” He was sure he wanted to go there. Scott nodded, confirming it. He’d take Mikey there, this was all for him anyway.

“Ever been?” He asked him. Mike shook his head.

“No.”

Scott looked around, nodded again, “Alright. Alright, it’s settled.”

Before folding the map back into its tiny square, Mike placed a kiss on Arizona, because he was sure that was where they were. Scott revved the bike until it came roaring to life. Mike sat on behind him.

 

* * *

They were kissing. Hot and sweaty, they kissed under the fireball called the sun. It was only the early afternoon, but the air was already sweltering like mad. The only sounds were that of the birds above and the sifting of the sand by the wind.  Scott’s hands were on him, settled nicely on the dip of his lower back, the other on his cheek. Mike didn't remember when they started kissing, didn't know how long they’d been laying in the same spot, pressed in an embrace that was both too much for the heat outside and not enough for the heat inside.

Mike didn't think Scott would still kiss him, after all, he had made it clear as day that he wasn't... _you know..._ but hey, there they were,  kissing and rubbing their hands over whatever bare skin they could find, rutting like sex-crazed animals-  Mike with his hands on Scott’s neck, the lengthy hair tickling his knuckles and the sweat on his palms slickening his grip. He heard Scott groan when his hand slipped and slid on his sensitive skin. Sand slipped into his shirt and pants, Scott’s hand moved from his back to his stomach and up his torso, feeling the hot skin and the press of his ribcage beneath. He took his lips from his mouth, kissing Mike’s neck, sucking the skin and licking the sweat. Mike had to be the only person in the world with sweat that tasted better, sweeter, than any mineral water he could order anywhere. It had all the right salinity, the salt tasting like sugar on his tongue and lips. He licked at his artery, bit down and secured it with his teeth, and sucked. It was Mike’s turn to make a sound, one that was muffled when he grits his teeth while Scott sucked on him. His lip trembled when he sighed. God, he was going to have a massive hickey and he didn’t have a thing to cover it.  They also probably shouldn't bang in the desert, rattlesnake bites were most definitely worse than a purple bruise on your neck, but he shrugged. If he died and this was his last moment, he'd be happy.

Scott dragged his tongue up Mike’s neck, liking over his Adam’s apple up to the tip of his chin, smiled, then went back to kissing his lips, Mike accepting him hungrily, his hand in Scott’s hair tightened, his hand his back scratched. Scott rolled his hips into Mike, grinding down on him to feel the way his whole body shuddered, the wave going from his toes to his head, escaping into Scott’s mouth in the form of a muffled moan that reverberated in the space of their mouths.

This wasn’t gay. Totally not gay in the slightest because it’s only gay if you’re doing it for free, which Scott wasn’t doing. His payment was the way Mike would latch himself onto him, his nails deep in his back while moaning out his name, his legs spread just for him until he cums in his jeans. That's Scott's payment, having Mike fall out because of him. Could you blame him, really? Have you ever seen Mike that way? Heard how his voice went raspy and desperate in need of release, his body turning red and hot under your hands? No? Then can you really judge him for holding Mike's sensitive beauty above any amount a John could slide him?

Mike couldn't feel his lips anymore, they'd been kissing for so long. He made a sound, anxious about the lack of feeling in his lips,  and made a pull. Scott released him and smiled some fiendish grin.

“S’wrong, Mikey?”

“Nothin’. My lips are numb.”

“They are?”

“Yeah..” Scott brought a salty finger to Mike's face, and pressed it on his bottom lip, rubbing over the cuts on his and the slight, chapped skin. Mike winced.

“All better?”

His lip hurt. He guessed he wasn't numb. Mike nodded. "Yeah, you fixed it." Scott laughed. Kissed him long until Mike laughed.

“You're a such a  goof, Mikey.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

A few hours pass Mike by, he had fallen asleep on Scott's bike, his head resting on his shoulder while he drove, pulling into the parking lot of a small inn. The bed opened its arms to Mike that night, and it didn't let him go until Scott's fingers were on his chest, tapping in tune to a song in his head.

“You’re hard to live with, you know that?”, Scott groaned, tapping Mike’s chest gently with his fingertips. Mike slapped weakly at his hands in a small attempt to get him to stop fondling the fat of his pectoral.

“Why?” Mike mumbled, his voice slurred by sleep and muffled by the cotton pressing against his cheek.

“You always fall asleep on me.”

“That’s not my fault.” He groaned out, shifting his body on the bed, causing the bed to squeak and bounce as he does so. He lay on his side, facing Scott, yet he kept his eyes shut, hoping to fall back asleep on his own will and not of that by his emotions.

“Mikey? Mikey?”

“Hm?”

“Are you sure now?”

“Bout what?”

Scott sucked in a breath, something unnatural for him to do. He was a talk first, regret later type deal that could talk a hurricane to a drizzle and a tornado to a breeze. He never stumbled over his words unless he meant to do so. Scott was a linguistic dancer- every stumble, stutter, or pace was done on his terms.

“About if you love me.”

Mike took a moment, “No.”

And somehow, Scott found that he was okay with that.  He'd been thinking about it, and it was scary- to know someone loved him without condition was scary to imagine. It made his palms sweat and his nerves tingle in this painful way, so he was ecstatic that Mike wasn't sure. Was over the moon that that day he'd been afraid of was somewhere far in the future.

With a smile plastered on his face, he slung an arm around Mike’s body and began to massage the skin that his hand connected with. Mike’s skin was soft beneath his fingertips, near silk-like, no it was softer than that, he thought, so soft that it was unnatural. He kept rubbing, running the pads of his fingers along the ridged spine of Mike that jutted out a bit too much for his liking. It gave him the idea of touching mountain zeniths surrounded by feather soft clouds with each dip and rise of the bone under the skin.

Scott’s toothy grin fell into a closed lip one, something softer. It fell to the smile of a man reminiscing about sweet dreams of simpler times long gone or perhaps, being wished upon.

“Stop touchin’ me.” Mike finally says, bashfully trying to cover his face. Scott doesn't stop, only rubs slower along his spine.

“Can't.”

“Why not?”

“You're soft. I like it when you're soft.”

Mike opened his eyes then, greeted with the nude, sunlight haloed body of Scott. His dark, sleep tossed hair that normally was crow black looked brown beneath the glow. Mike never really believed in the idea of a human-bodied angel of any sort, no never, but if they were to exist, then he was sure that Scott out-glowed them by miles with just a smile.

Mike studied Scott’s face, catching each strain release, watched every wrinkle soften out. Studied the wild, untamed scruff of Scott’s forming beard, noticing how new it was and how it made the young man look somewhat older. He looked into Scott’s eyes which were ever so round, dark and deeper than any well and held just as much. It made Mike breathless, how they focused so deeply on him for no reason whatsoever, and with breathlessness came a blush of embarrassment. Of unworthiness of being beheld. Mike shifted under the gaze, and before where he hoped to fall asleep under his own terms, he hoped that his body would take the reins like it normally does.

Mike fiddled with the shelled necklace around his neck with unsteady, shaking fingers. He chewed his lip, wet with saliva and coppery from dried blood. He tasted them both as he looked over Scott with wide, teary blue eyes. In a shy, cautious manner, Mike brought a hand to Scott’s face, rubbing at the dark stubble there.

“You're scruffy.” he breathes out. Scott beamed

“Thanks. You like it?”

Mike scrunched his nose, “Hell no.”

He traces the outline of the scruff with his thumb. It was almost childlike, like when a newborn touches the face of their parent, trying to learn of the ways of the visage.

“I hate it, Scottie. Wish you'd shave it.”

“You want me to shave? Why?”

“S’rough. Itchy.”

“If it's so rough,” Scott catches Mike's fingers with a hand as they near his mouth, licks them, “then why’re you touchin’ it?” Mike is taken aback by the lick but laughs anyway. It’s affectionate.

“I’m touchin’ it ‘cause it’s nasty.”

“Stop lyin’”

Mike smiled. The “beard” was kind of gross to look at.

“I’m not.”

“You want me to shave?” Scott half-joked, rubbing the bony fingers in his hand carefully. Mike was very thin. Too thin to be healthy. Perhaps it was the veganism. Mike shrugged, he was fully awake now and his stomach rumbled low with hunger.

“Yeah, I do. It doesn’t suit you.

“Okay,” Scott let Mike’s fingers go, rolled on his back and clasped his hands together on his stomach.

"I guess I will.”

* * *

 

He waited outside the bathroom, back pressed against the wall as he waited for Scott to finish up. He played with his cuticles, pressing them back with his thumbs while the faucet turned on with a squeak, the water rushing into the bowl. It’s an annoying sound to him, the noise of running water, and he has an urge to walk in and twist the knob till the sound stopped when Scott doesn’t stop it after much longer than a minute.

From inside the room, Scott called out questions. His head tilted towards the mirror, chin lifted as he scraped away the foam covered hairs from his skin with a razor, his hair pulled back into a low ponytail to keep from obscuring his vision. Carefully, he shaves at his neck, curses when he knicks himself. He runs the water over the blade, washing away the foam and hair before diving back and starting on his cheeks.

“What's the matter, Mikey? You're quiet.”

Mike nods his head to the side, bites his lip and looks into the bathroom.

“Hungry.”

“You are?” Scott responds slightly shocked at the admittance. Mike blinks, brings his haphazardly manicured fingers to his lips and bites the nail of his thumb.

“Yeah.”

Scott hums, Mike winces when he pulls at an unsuspected hangnail. 

"They serve breakfast here, you can eat."

"Yeah,I know, but," he shrugged, "they might not have what I want."

Scott sighed, washing the blade again and starting on his other cheek. 

"Well, Mikey, tell 'em what you want. I'm sure they can make it happen. If not, then I'll buy you something. How does that sound?"

In truth, Mike wasn't too worried about the breakfast, he didn't care that much about whether or not they had vegan bagels or anything, he could very well opt for a fruit and be fine for the morning. The thing was that he wanted to keep an eye on Scott. He was nervous the other might pull a trick and leave him stranded at the motel. Scott's done it before, but then again, he had he never left him for long, only to pick up something last minute. Either way, Mike didn't want to to go downstairs alone and fend for himself. So he stayed by the bathroom door as Scott sliced away the last of his facial hair and patted himself down with aftershave. Mike pushed his hair behind his ear, thinking that he should probably get a cut too soon, his hair was past his earlobe and tickling his neck. Scott said he looked fine, but he felt like such a girl.

"Oh, hey, Mikey, by the way," Scott perked up, stepping out of the bathroom and walking past him and back to their bag of clothes, "you gotta call your brother.”

Mike stood straight, fixing his slacked posture against the wall. He hadn't spoken to Richard since the day they left and that was only to tell him that he wasn't going to be in Portland for much longer, “Why I gotta do that? The hell I need to do that for?” he asked defensively. Richard wasn't his keeper, he didn't need to talk to him every day.

“To talk.” He said cooly, sliding on a shirt. Mike didn't move from the wall.

“To talk about what? He's not my da-.” Mike shook his head, rephrased himself, "I talked to him before we left."

“Yeah, that's why you need to call him. He's probably worried sick."

"Who cares. I'm an adult, he doesn't really need to care."

Scott put his hand on his hip and undid his ponytail with the other: "Call him.”

“Don't wanna.”

“Why? I kinda like Richard.”

“I do too, he's my _brother_. I like him too.”

“But you don't wanna call?”

“I don't wanna call.”

Scott huffed and looked out the window. He shrugged. Mike was an adult, e couldn't make him do anything he didn't want to, and calling his brother was one of those things.

"Fine. Fine, at least let him know you're alive at some point, dude. Don't be like-." He stopped himself. That would've been rude. Mike caught his words though and walked forward a few steps, like he wanted to hear him better.

"Like who, Scottie?"

"No one, let's just get breakfast, alright? Call him sometime though." Scott began to walk to the door, hoping Mike would let it go and follow him to the mediocre breakfast that would be waiting for them until noon, but apparently, he was in the mood to argue. He lightly grabbed Scott's arm and eld him.

"Like  _who_ , Scott? Say  it."

"If you know the answer, then why should I?"

"I don't know it. Say it."

"You're bad at being stupid, Mike." He pulled his arm away and faced him, "Are we going to eat or no?"

Mike crossed his arms, "Say it."

Annoyance seeped into his chest, his fingers ached. Scott was losing patience by the second. 

"Why? So we can argue about it? It's not that serious, Mikey, just call your brother and stop trying to drop off the earth." He walked away towards the door, grabbing the handle and waited, thinking about whether or not what he wanted to say was the best thing to say at this moment. Would saying: _'you're acting like your mother'_ be the same as dropping a live wire into a pool at a party? Maybe. Would it be as devastating? Absolutely.

 He kept it to himself, not wanting to hurt Mike's feelings.

"Scott, what're you trying to say? That I'm just-" he threw out a hand for inference, "gone with the fuckin' wind just 'cause I don't want to dance around with Rich on the phone for an hour?"

Scott dropped his head, knocking it on the door. He didn't want to argue about something so meaningless at eleven in the morning. He turned the knob and opened the door, the heat of the day hitting him full force.

"I'm just saying," he lowered his voice, "going missing isn't hereditary, Mike, but you're sure acting like it is." Then stepped out the room and into the day. The last place they were was the Arizona desert, they took a turn and now they were in Pheonix. It took them about two days and some change to get here from Portland, and it'd be another two or three days for the next thirty-two hours to get to North Carolina because Mike would want to see sights and go to a cattle farm or something. Scott shrugged, cursed the sun, and walked to breakfast alone, while Mike stayed silent in their room, sitting slack on the spare bed, thinking that Scott really hadn't said what he thought he said to his face.

Mike didn't eat breakfast that day. Scott didn't come back from breakfast until midnight. For the first time in days, the two of them slept in separate beds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i came for the beard fight me (pls don't I love beard Keanu) also like, in my notes, they were supposed to do it in the desert?? but I don't have the stamina to write that rn so oof.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing dialect I want to kms

One evening, Mike fell asleep, not one of his narcoleptic fits, but simple exhaustion. He was tired from chasing Scott around the mall and hearing him talk shit about how Mike forgot to fill the tank _again_ and swearing that Mike was doing it on purpose.

Then they argued about it, which was embarrassing because they were in the middle of derelict convenience store, shooting jabs at each other through shelves of pickled eggs and sausage while onlookers shifted uncomfortably around them. They argued at McDonald's over milkshakes and burgers and even at the clothing store about what Micheal should and shouldn't wear.

Exhausted. Pure exhaustion.

Laying in bed, Mike dozed, falling into a deep dream about something that happened long ago.

* * *

 

The first time they officially met, was when Mike first started hustling.

It was a strange turn of events, Mike figured.  He was dragged to a high class party by a much too old man,  and was nervously fumbling behind him as they waited around for the party to truly begin.  He was about, maybe sixteen when this happened, meaning Scott was to be sixteen. Mike was mature, he figured, so it didn't matter how old he was when it came to the snuff of things.

He sipped at a cocktail, grimaced, the taste was stronger than he thought.  His John put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed, it was awkwardly fatherly,  as if he were reminding him where they were while also relaxing him, telling him it was okay to be nervous. So Mike took another biting sip, felt the acid in his stomach bubble,  then set it on the coffee table. He sat back, crossed his legs.

He was uncomfortable.

Not because of his date being an older man, no, he'd knew he'd had to deal with that, but it was he party in general. Now Mike had never been to a true party yet,  but he knew at least that it shouldn't have felt like... _that_.  It was a strange meeting,  the party, with smiling faces, glittering designer outfits, hard drinks and a huge location, but that was all surface. Beneath it all,  was deep uninterest and trepidation. Each face he looked at was an ugly mask made of fine material, wasted on such terrible actors. Mike felt annoyance welling inside, he was annoyed by the nastiness of the party goers and their wickedness. Mike was the biggest sinner there, but amongst the masses at this party, even him, the whore, managed to spring a halo.  

He fumbled with the buttons of his suit jacket. This John really liked him, he guessed, the man had went through the trouble of getting him all dressed up and then took him nowhere,  but he didn't say anything, just played with the gold buttons on the dark blue jacket, looked at how the dark blue bounced off the cream of his turtleneck. He crossed his legs, looked at his shoes, shoes he'd be sure to throw away given the right time- they were nice shoes, a pretty light brown that shined, but they were so expensive that they looked ugly and turned his stomach. Mike couldn't keep them.

He had forgotten that the John's hand was on his shoulder until it was on the back of his neck, his thumb rubbing along a tendon. Mike stiffened, coaxed himself to relax, then looked at the John. He was drinking and talking to someone, a woman with an awkward smile and spoke from the side of her red lipped mouth. She was talking about taxes or something, some shit he didn't care to hear about because Mike didn't even pay taxes unless he bought something.

When the clock hit 3:30, people really began to pour in with gifts in decorated boxes and their masks all pretty. Mike couldn't stand to sit in that spot forever, so he stood, catching the John off guard.

“Bathroom.” he smiled and whispered, the John let him be.

Now, Mike didn't know where the bathroom was. He didn't know where anything in the house was,  but still he meandered through the new hoard of party goers, slipping and sliding between them and their friends until he was past the large doors that seperated the party and the rest of the house. It was a large house, with a high ceiling, long and wide windows that let in as much sun as they could, and the walls were wooden and antiqued, paintings were hanging on nearly all the walls, and where they weren't, statues were scattered about. It was a beautiful home, except he couldn't live there even if he wanted: everything looked breakable and expensive.

With hands in his pants pockets, he walked the empty hallway, the heels of his shoes clicking on the wood of the floor and echoing around him. He felt like he was walking in another dimension, or at least stepping into one, where it was just him and the cool echo of his shoes. As he walked, he became lost in his thoughts, forgetting about the bathroom and the John and whatever else he wasn't supposed to forget,  he was intoxicating himself with himself. Made his mind drunk off of his own ideas and the sounds of himself- his own breathing, his own touch, his own smell that laid below the smell of his cologne. He felt dizzy. He hoped he wasn't having an episode.

He began to exit his sound room, hearing the voices of others as he walked deeper into the heart of the home. He didn't know where he was, just knew that he didn't know how to get back to where he came from. He kept following the echo of a voice. The voice of a man it was and then another man, older. He followed it to a cross-section, where he was standing in the large foyer,a staircase to the right of him, the front door to his left, and another hall that lead to the family room in front of him. He looked around, above him was a heavy chandelier that glittered under the light of the outside world, making pretty markings of color on the deep mahogany of the curved ceiling,  under his feet was a rug. It was large, dark, and old, detailing with fine design and stitching a regal design of leaves and flowers. He liked it, the foyer, but he was snapped from his thoughts as the sound of a door opening and slamming was heard on the upper floor, down a hall that he couldn't see. He stood there as the reverb of angry shoes bounced down the hall wildly, miles ahead of the person who made the sound. When he saw him, he felt a chill run down his spine. His hairs stood.

He was a young man, no older than Mike, with dark, slicked hair and a suit that looked suited for someone older, not for him. Mike stood there dumbly looking up at the other teen, who looked down at him from the upper floor,  his hands on the wood banister and his face contorted in confusion. He was just as interested in Mike's being there, as Mike was in who the person was staring down at him.

Mike felt, deep in his sternum, that he knew this person,  and it annoyed him that he couldn't place a name. At the top of the stairs, Scott felt the same. They recognized each other by their eyes, which was strange to say when the average person locked eyes with at least twenty people a day, but they didn't think about that. They just knew they had met, maybe, met with their eyes, not their bodies. Not with a handshake or a mediator, but with eyes alone. Mike recognized those eyes, their dark shadow,perfectly round and that same softness from the car all those ten years ago. Scott recognized him too, he was a much more defined person now, not the same red faced little boy who waved at him from his bus seat, though he still had those blue eyes, clear like a mountain spring and refreshing to look into.

Ten years. It had been ten years since they had laid eyes on each other. And now, here they were, tangible, malleable, able to be touched and formed right then and there if they so choose. Mike felt his heart race, that boy above him was a new thing, a cold pool on a summer day. He radiated princeliness, a regality that Mike had no business cutting into.  

“Hi.” the one above him said, the sound coming straight to him.

“Hi.” Mike said back,  dumbly. He wanted to kick himself. He sounded stupid, unable to make his words shoot ahead instead of bouncing around nervously. The other smiled, putting his elbow on the banister and put his chin in his hand. There was the sound of a door slamming shut with a heaviness, then the clicking of shoes on heavy feet. It made Mike nervous, the sound of the shoes, but Scott stared down at him as if there wasn’t a giant coming after him.

“I've seen you before.” 

“Yeah,  I've seen you too.”

“My-my name's Michael!”, he didn't mean to shout, but he felt nervous.

“Well I'm Scott!”, he shouted back playfully “Welcome to my house. To my birthday party.”

Mike looked at him. All this was for him?

“Your birthday party? It feels like a funeral in there. I didn't even see a cake.”

“Yeah well,” he shrugged, “that's how they always are. Not really my party. It's as much mine as it is yours.” Scott stood straight, he began walking down the stairs,  coolly sliding his hand into his pocket while he walked and talked, “It's not mine,” he frowned at the ground, he looked hurt, but not disappointed. “no, it's not mine.” It came out low, quiet. Mike felt bad for him, then remembered what he thought about Scott as a child, and felt even worse.

“Who's is it, then?” he asked as Scott plucked a rose out of a vase by the bottom of the stairs, twirled it, and kept walking towards Mike.

“My dad's. He wants to be mayor, you know. I think this was his way of “ _letting the people in”_ ,” he scoffed, standing much closer than Mike thought he should.  He smelled of clovers and rebellion, “if only they really knew, you know?”

Mike thought, not really able to agree or disagree, he never had to deal with the issue of dads or their lies. But he nodded anyway. Scott looked him in the eye, handed him the flower.

“You don't have to lie, Mikey.” he whispered, and that's when Mike's heart imploded, fell into itself and stopped beating for the world and only for Scott. He felt worse, shyer than before, Scott winked at him, smile  never leaving his face as Mike’s heartbeat went from zero to eighty in seconds. He twirled the rose in his hand. It was plastic.

Scott walked around him,  went to the front door and dug his hand into his other pocket, pulling out a set of keys. “Who’re you here with? My dad doesn't just invite anyone.”

“I-I don't know his name.”

“You don’t know his name? How’re-” Something clicked, “ _Oh_ ,” he let out, still looking at him. “You’re a-”

Oh indeed. Mike had given himself away twice in one conversation, while Scott only gave up once. Scott looked at him, first with confusion, then a flicker of disgust. Whatever he was thinking, he boiled it down and bottled it.

 _“_ It's complicated.” Mike answered, cutting his sentence short. Bashfully he looked at his shoes. Scott looked at him, really looked at him, and took him in. He looked nice, he guessed, very pretty, not a manish handsome, but a teenage pretty. He could see how Mike got caught up in such a business, but he couldn’t see _why_ .  Mike looked sweet to him.  Very sweet. Not the type that would normally be associated with hookering and hustling. He saw how Mike began to close up, clearly anxious about what he thought of him. Scott brushed it off coolly, not making it verbal  that he didn't like it, the thing Mike tried to hide under _“‘it’s complicated’”._

“Well, forget it. Your date, that guy you came with.” Mike looked up at the sound when Scott he jiggled his keys, “Do you want to come with me on a joyride?”

“I-are you sure?”

“Yeah. Unless, you like being cooped up in a room full of masked demons.”

Mike smiled then, they'd get along fine, “That's why I left the room. Too many actors and not enough people.”

“Then let me take you to meet some people, Mike.”

“Please, lead the way.”

They snuck out the the house, walking excitedly, arms thrown around each other's shoulder and feet stumbling and locking with the tangle of their walk towards a fancy car that was parked out front. He went to the driver's side and unlocked the doors. In a manner of mocking gentlemanship, he ran back around the car and pulled the door open for Mike, who giggled and blushed. He looked back at the house, waiting for the angry figure of Mr.Favor to yank the front door open and yell for them to come back.

He climbed in, Scott closing the door behind him. Mike studied the interior of the vehicle. The inside was a creme color,  slick and new, the leather firm and shining. The car smelled of them, he and Scott’s cologne mixed in the air, turning it to a mix of clovers, rebellion, and lavender. He sat back as Scott began to pull away from the drive. He watched the outside world slip pass in a blur while the radio sang to them.  

Scott glanced at him out the corner of his eye, Mike was smiling,  it was small, but it was a smile that showed all over his face. There were certain things to look for in a person's face to tell if they were genuine or not- if it were a genuine smile,  their lips turned up, the area around the eye wrinkled and closed with the upward push of muscle. He kept glancing his way, as if if he didn't, his new friend would fly out the window and never return.

Mike caught him a few times, but didn't say anything. In secret,  he liked that Scott found interest in him. It meant that, hopefully,  after their outing, Scott would take to him and consider him part of his personal life. He twiddled his thumbs. He wanted Scott to be his friend, wanted him to like him and accept him in.

They drove and listened to music, Mike letting the fast wind whip his hair around, dishevelling his done up style and replacing it with a more natural look- Scott gave him a long stare, not meaning  to, but stared straight at Mike while he drove, wondering if this person here was genuine and not another fantasy in his lonely mind.

He heard the sound of a horn and snapped his head back to the road, swerving the car in time to keep them from running head on into a van. It jerked their bodies,  scared them. Mike laughed first, his whole body moved with the packet of giggles. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, he didn't know why it was so funny, them almost dying, but he'd figure it out later.  Scott, shocked that he had almost quite frankly killed them both, huffed out a fraction of a laugh, then found the same vein of humor as his friend, and laughed along with him.

The first place they went was a playground, sans children, but a playground nonetheless. It was rusted, covered in dirt and leaves and overall in bad shape. Scott slapped a hand on his neck and demanded that they play, pulling him forward buy his neck then shouting that he’d race him to the swing set at the other end of the abandoned park. Scott had beat him there, Mike’s lungs not like how they should've been for a sixteen year old, but still he ran after his buddy, even if his lungs were shot and didn’t want to expand like they should’ve. Even if he was wearing penny loafers that made running hard as their flat soles smacked on the mulch. He still ran after him, chased him, grabbed his arm and blacked out.

Mike hit the ground gently, thanks to Scott grabbing him as he crumpled. He grabbed him, and turned him so that he wouldn’t crack his face on the rubber tar of the swing set. He wrapped his arms around him, held him close, panic settling in his blood.  Scott had never killed anyone before, and he hadn’t hoped to start with on his birthday, let alone with his new friend. He rubbed Mike’s arm, looking around the park. It was only him, the birds, and a dead Mike in his arms.

He couldn’t panic, that’d be uncool of him, but he’d be lying if he said that the limp body of his friend didn’t put the fear of God into him. He cradled him, he didn’t know what to do except stare at him and hope for the best. Scott brought a hand to Mike’s face, moving it so he could get a better look at his surprisingly peaceful face. His skin was pale, with a thin face and tanned cheeks. He was pretty, that he’d admit, he could admit that much about another guy. If they were drop dead gorgeous, he’d tell them that much, but gosh he thought Mike was pretty before when he was smiling and laughing, but in death, he took on a fragile beauty, like a flower. God, he hoped he wasn’t dead, that’d suck. That’d _really_ suck because Scott’s never had a friend like this before, one that he felt so connected to. Maybe he was projecting a bit, he’s only known the guy for about an hour or two, was that too soon to think of him as a friend? How did it work, how long did it take?

Scott stared at the sky as if the answer would fall from the clouds and smack him in the face. Instead, a raindrop hit him square on the forehead. Then another fell on his nose, his shoulder, then on Mike’s lolling face, hitting him on the cheek and running down his chin like a tear. A light drizzle  showered down on them despite the sun still high above them both. He had heard about these types of things, ‘sunshowers’, they were called according to his teacher, and they were paradoxical beauties- raining without the heavy clouds of a storm while the sun still glowed. There was something supernatural about the shower, something ominous about the future carrying the real storm that this rain was the messenger of. Another part of him thought it lucky, the mixing of warm sunshine and the cool drops.

Mike stirred in his arms, his eyebrows furrowing as the water hit him, his mouth dropping to a frown. Scott nearly jumped from his skin as Mike came to, still he held him until the other opened his eyes and made a weak attempt to sit up.

    “Sorry. I have a-a condition.”

    “Narcolepsy?”

    “What?”

    “It’s a condition. Makes you clock out when you’re stressed or something like that.”

    “Oh, well then, maybe.”

Mike was weird, damn weird, but also interesting to boot, and this thing that just happened made him want to stay around to figure out what the hell Mike was doing being  hooker, but also to keep him safe. If he was going under whenever a situation got hot, he’d be stuck.

   

Scott pulled up to a long dirt road between an opening of trees. The car rocked on the uneven dirt of the road that lead them to a large black gate. The bars went far above their heads and ended with an ominous point. Behind them, planted firmly on the grass, were rows of concrete crosses and statues. Mike’s brows twitched, his smile falling. He looked to Scott as they pulled up close to the gate and the car stopped.

“Scott?”

He looked at him, “Yeah, Mike?”

    “We’re at a cemetary.”

    “I know. It’s fun,” he unlocked the doors, pushed his open and nodded profusely, trying to persuade himself that it was indeed fun, “it’s fun, c’mon, it’s alright. We’re visitin’ someone. It’ll be fine.” He tried to reassure his friend, but Mike was a bit of a hard nut to crack. He looked unsure, nervous of the large gate and the hills behind it, his mouth opened to counter  him, then closed when he swallowed down spit. Scott took the keys from the ignition and waited on Mike, he thought to himself that maybe it was a bit too soon and sudden to bring someone you just met to a cemetery, but he kind of thought that the two of them were somehow on the same wavelength and that he’d be interested at least.

“You don’t have to come with me, dude.”

“I-I guess but, who are we visiting?”

“Uh, it’s my mom...it’s kinda a traditional thing, to visit her on my birthday.”

“Oh. Oh, okay, then…”

“You don’t have to go.”

He really didn't want to, cemeteries weren't his exact idea of “fun”, but really, what did he have to lose?

* * *

 

Scott had never seen someone so beautiful in the light of the setting sun, especially in a cemetery. He took note on how the orange shined on Mike's wind tossed hair and on his face as he looked up at the passing clouds being set  alight with an orange haze. Scott didn't say a thing about it from his spot on the ground, just looked at him, watched him when the wind ruffled his hair, then looked down at the grave beneath his feet. He had come here to see his mother, but remembered that Mike was with him, they had somehow bonded so tightly in the hour or two, that it felt like they'd known each other for centuries and had been blessed with a gracious reunion that Scott wasn't sure he deserved.

Scott was lost in thought, he didn't register that Mike was staring at him until he opened his mouth.

“Will your dad be upset?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Extremely. He'd want my head on a platter as soon as I walk in.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don't be.  I love pissing in his shoes. Feels good.” Then he went silent,  “What about you? Won't that guy be mad?”

“Probably.”

They went silent. The both upset important people in their lives, but did it with smiles on their faces and excitement in their blood, so really, they made the most important people in their lives happy, at the expense of people they hoped to never see again. Scott spoke up.

“So...are you really…”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“Few months probably.” He kicked up some dirt. Scott nodded, taking it in.

“Do your parents know?”

Mike looked up, gulped down the sweet air of the cemetery. He looked at the clouds for an answer.

“Don’t have a dad. My brother knows.”

“Your mom?”

“Don’t know where she is either.” he shrugged, shoulders dropping hard, “She left.”

That was a new point of view for Scott. He had heard countless stories of dads leaving whole families for the newest fling, but very, very rarely had he heard of mothers leaving their children behind. He himself couldn’t fathom the idea, it was hard to think that his mother would do something like that because he had never known her, to think of her not leaving him by dying but by her own volition and without a second thought was inconceivable. Then he thought that maybe that was the full answer to why Mike was doing what he was doing- that very thing Scott and the other rich boys joked about when they entertained flimsy, fast girls who took the low road like his blonde friend and also the very thing that Scott himself silently suffered from: _Daddy issues_.

Maybe for Mike they were simply ‘parent’ issues, but all the same they both had daddy and mommy issues, but Mike had them worse, so much worse that he felt no other way to cope with them but to hook and hustle.

It made Scott uncomfortable all of the sudden, but he didn’t tell that to his friend, thinking that saying it would make Mike feel worse than he probably already felt about it all. He chewed his lip.and

Mike dug the toe of his loafers into a soft patch of dirt. He felt a heavy ball in his stomach and felt a sickness pooling. He felt like he was slowly being poisoned by his own words and regretted letting about Scott know.

He wanted to go back to his date.

* * *

 

The time Mike comes to, he’s still in the motel room, lying in bed,  blankets, and pillows encasing him in a warm nest of clean sheets and softness.  He looked with tired, confused eyes around the room. A panic rises in him, he can't find Scott. He can't see him with his hazy sight.  He blinks once, then twice-blinks until the orange sunlit room becomes clearer and legible. Still, he cannot see Scott.

He sits up in bed,  panic now spreading throughout his body.  His hands go cold, his joints hurt with tension.  He looks around him. Where is Scott? Where did he go?

With a nervous voice,  one that cracks with each word,  he calls out meekly, “Scott?”

With no answer, he tries again, “Scottie?”

And once more,  throwing his legs over the edge of the bed abs hoisting himself up, his hurt joints popping with use,  he wanders around the small room, calling for his friend.

“Scottie? Scott?”

He walks to the window that only shows the  concrete balcony that overlooked the the parking lot and faced the setting sun.He  let the curtain fall into place, and steps out of the room, his bare feet touching the hot concrete of the second floor.  A restaurant sits just below the orange sphere, and the interstate next door, hidden behind a scarce bit of trees, is a noisy bustle.  With squinting eyes and shuffling feet, Mike inches his way to the rail and bends his body over the metal, folding himself as if stretching his back.  He looks for Scott's bike, the shiny thing, yet sees nothing but a lone pick-up and incoming cars. A sense of dread hits him, and with a load of dejectedness, he drops his head and sits there at the railing, body folded over like a tattered towel on a line. He groans low, the sound of his neighbors talking and the clink of the metallic lock of their door catches his attention,  but he doesn't pass them a glance.

Out from that neighboring, identical room, two men come out,  puffing on self-rolled cigarettes and chortling up a storm over something in a deep southern drawl. The elder one was donning a sweat stained wife beater and sporting an ugly beer belly and had a gross greasiness about him that gave the impression that he smelled of backwoods and musk. He wore a trucker’s cap and the ends of his ratty, oily hair touched his shoulders. His friend was younger, thirty maybe,  wearing a lime green, untucked work shirt and khakis. He had a scruffy beard coming in, and hard brown eyes. His hair was short and ruffled, a dirty blonde.

They stood about noisily smoking, easily ignoring the presence of the bent man beside them.  Mike brought his head up a to give them a look, nosey was he, to spot a look at the the elusive couple he hadn't even known were staying next door.  The younger caught him looking, nodded his head in getting, Mike returned the gesture. The men ignored him as he sulked.

That is,  until one of the them,  the younger came forward and tossed the butt over the ledge. The older man hung back,  watching the sunset and finishing his own. The young man eased himself next to Mike.

“You a’ght?” he asked, cottonmouth mixed with the deep south in his throat. Mike messed with his hair, pushed his lengthy bang behind his ear. He looked down.

“Yeah. I'm alright.” it came out meek. Shy and nervous. The man huffed.

“Weren't you here with a frien’? Black hair’d kid?”

“Yeah.” Mike didn't know what else to say.  He dealt with strangers on the regular, but it was never not awkward to be forced into small talk outside your own turf. “I, uh, I don't know where he went,” he looked at the man who stared ahead, “you seen him?”

The door behind them creaked open with a clicking noise, then closed. The man looked at Mike. “Yeah. Earlier. Left when I came up.” Mike perked at that,  but it was empty. It didn't bring him closer to figuring out where the hell he went. The man turned full frontal, jutted out a hand, Mike eyed it, then took it.

“Dwayne.”

“Mike.”

They shook hands,  Dwayne's were hard, calloused and rough from hard labor.  They were warm in Mike's cold grip, giving him a small exchange of body heat. When he let go,  D’wayne looked at him in a practiced gaze of interest. It reminded him of a song- or a poem maybe, the way he looked at him. Mike recalled them, the low whisper slipping into his mind. It was almost like a warning.

Mike slouched on the rail, playing with his nails. His hair fell into his face.  It had gotten longer, reaching just below his chin.

“You sure you alright?”

“Yeah.  Just, feel bad,  s’all.” he shrugged half heartedly.

“You ain't gotta feel bad by yourself.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You can hang wit’ us ‘til he gets back.  How's that sound?”

Mike turned his head to him,  slightly surprised at the boldness. It was different from sly Portland. Down here they were bold and quick.

“I-I  just met you.” he said innocently,  as if that had ever stopped him and a John before. Dwayne nodded, figuring that was about right of answer as any.  He then dug his hands into his pockets, pulling out a pack of brand cigs, he offered one to Mike, who took it with shaking fingers. Withdrawal shakes probably or anxiety, he couldn't tell. He put the cigarette between his lips and leaned for Dwayne to light both at once.  He flicked open a decorated zippo and set them both ablaze. Mike puffed, D'wayne smirked.

“You take drugs from strangers?”

“Don't most?”

Dwayne considered this, played with the metal square in his fingers by tapping it against the rail. Mike pointed at it,  “Can I see that? Looks dope.”

He handed it over,  Mike twiddled with it,  turning it over in his hands. One side had a picture of a hound in the foreground and flying ducks in the back. Below it were the words “ _‘Bama 99_ ” in bold lettering. The other side had a professional engraving of Dwayne’s name and the date of creation.

“Got it from my pop.” he said, letting out smoke as he spoke.  “Dad’s from ‘Bama and damn proud of it. Figured he’d give a souvenir the las’ ‘ime he went. He don’t do much nowadays.”

Mike nodded, mumbled out “Dope.” and turned it over more. He handed it back and smoked in silence.

“What, uh, what’d he’d do?”

“Trucker. Drove all over the states an’ the such. Used to do a lot. He don’t do much no more.”

“Oh.Is he- is he that man with you?” Mike scratched his cheek. Dwayne twinged his lip.

“No, hell no. That’s my bud in there. We jus’ got up from Mexico, takin’ a break.”

“Oh. Oh..” Mike chewed his lip, finished the cigarette and threw down the bud. “Was it nice? Mexico?”

“Yeah. Didn’t stay long.”

Mike nodded in response. He didn’t know what to say. Dwayne spoke up again.

“You know,” He looked down, the glanced around, “I’ve had an eye on ya.”

Mike blinked. Suddenly, he was deeply afraid.

“Excuse me?”

“Now don’t take it the wrong way, a’ight? Jus’, you an’ your buddy been here for a while.Couldn’t help seein’ ya.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout you. You prolly don’t remember but, I spoke to ya at the corner store. Picked your change off the floor for ya, an’ ya smiled.” Dwayne smiled, Mike’s skin went cold. Where was Scott?

“But, uh, forget about all that. I jus’ wanted to talk to ya. Get’ta know ya abit ‘fore y’all go.”

“O-okay...that’s fine I guess.”

Dwayne grinned, oblivious to the reservedness of Mike.

“So you hangin’?” He asked, as if retelling in the creepiest fashion type your first,  unrememberable meeting with someone was the right way to get them to hang out with you.

“Nah, I-I gotta wait for ‘im.” Mike declines with a stutter of words. Dwyane smiles but doesn't press him. He clears his throat, smokes.

“Wait all you like, just know that I'm next door.”

Dwayne winked, then threw his second smoke on the ground and snuffed it out.  He walked into his room, leaving Mike lonesome once again, under the darkening sky. He rubbed his face tiredly.  It was getting later by the minute, and Scott hadn't shown up yet. He was beginning to get agitated and angry. Where the hell could Scott have gone in North Carolina? He's never _been_ to North Carolina! Suddenly, a sinking feeling.  Perhaps something happened to him- an accident or something. What if he was in trouble but Mike was too much of an idiot to notice and help him.  He began to feel sick inside, his stomach twisting, not mixing well with emptiness and the taste of cigarette. He became nauseas, felt dizzy. He bit his pinky nail in thought.

 

Scott could be dead,  who knows what could've happened while he was on his bike.  Some truck could've slammed into him and crushed him under its wheels or he could've had a freak accident while driving the backwoods. He kept nibbling nervously.  He didn't want to be without Scott, even if he needed to. Scott outside of Idaho was all he knew, and without him he'd be stuck and lost. He felt a sharp pain, a pull on his finger. He had bitten his nails to the skin and blood began to seep and drip from the wound. He grimaced at the sight,  spat out the blood that fold found its way into his mouth, and looked at the parking lot. Still, Scott's bike didn't rumble up into a spot, didn’t even cough into the lot. Mike looked to the closed door of D’wayne, considering for a moment if he should take up the offer just for the moment until Scott made his way back. He thought hard on it, blues studying the blue door as if it were some portal to a dimension he wanted to peek at. He walked to it, pressed his fingers lightly on the cold metal. Maybe. He considered. Maybe he could...maybe...maybe not….

 

Mike moved from the door.  He shouldn't. Dwayne was a creep and smelled of crank and booze.  Scott would kill him off he hung out with a guy like that after everything. The both of them agreed to cut the hard drugs and relax. He walked into his motel room, locked it,  unlocked it, locked it again and went to shower. While bathing, he thought about what Dwayne could be doing, as one normally does after meeting someone for the first time, but forgot about it when, through the loud torrent of the shower, he heard the door creak open then close with a controlled slam. Mike quickly cut the water,  listening as Scott fumbled around the room, the crinkle of plastic bags hitting the ground made it clear that Scott had been busy.

Mike felt bad for thinking of those hypotheticals. Scott was just fine.

Soaking wet, Mike carefully stepped out the shower, and wrapped a towel around as Scott pulled the bathroom door open. He looked terrible, disheveled. His hair was wind thrown and puffed,  his leather jacket slipping off his shoulders and his eyes looked irritated from the wind. Mike waves at him shyly, smiles at his friend. He feels exposed and shy, a deep feeling forming in his gut, like butterflies or moths or something gross like that.  Maybe it's the cigarette.

“Hey, Scott, how's it going?”

“S’alright.”

“Where'd you go earlier? I-I got lonely.”

Scott grinned as if  it were a compliment, leaving someone lonely.  


End file.
